


she kills with her guitar

by HolisticPanda



Series: Kurlish Week [2]
Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 14:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12390165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolisticPanda/pseuds/HolisticPanda
Summary: She plays the guitar as though she was born with it in her hands—like it was a part of her own body.Kurlish Week Day 2: AU





	she kills with her guitar

A surprising amount of people have absolutely no idea how hacking works. Most just picture a guy sitting in the dark in front of multiple screens, typing furiously for hours at a loud, mechanical keyboard while techno music blasts in the background.

And they’re not _completely_ wrong. He _is_ currently listening to disco, techno’s long dead ancestor, but that’s where the similarities end. What usually happens is that he types a few commands into the command line to run a program that either he or one of his fellow hacker buddies wrote and spends the next few hours fucking off while the application does its work. If it weren’t for the movies making hacking look like something only a genius could do, he’d for sure be out of a job.

A job he doesn’t particularly _like_ if he’s being honest. Besides the moral greyness of what he does, jobs that pay well don’t come along all that often. He can usually scrape together just enough in a month to eat, pay the rent on his shoebox of an apartment, and also indulge in his more extravagant hobbies—if visiting the local strip clubs can be considered a hobby, anyway. He doesn’t lead a particularly happy or exciting life, but at least it’s a relatively free one.

He’s currently running a brute force hack into some rich girl named Lydia Spring’s Facebook account—her dad was _convinced_ she was dating older men—when the doors to the Waffle House he’s relaxing in slam open, loud enough to scare the shit out of him even through his earpods. A woman who looks to be a little older than him, somewhere in her mid to late twenties if he had to guess, stomps into the diner.

She’s wearing a large black t-shirt that looks two sizes too big for her and a pair of rippled, baggy black pants stuffed into scuffed, oversized boots. Her wild brown hair is tamed only by a backwards blue cap while her wrists are adorned with a few beaded and woven bracelets. A variety of tattoos litter the rest of her arms that he can see, creeping up from her forearms to her biceps, and he spots the glint of a stud in her nose in the bright lighting. In short, combined with the wild expression in her piercing blue eyes, she looks like a completely deranged hippie.

Her gaze flickers about the restaurant before eventually settling on him, her face morphing from annoyance into furious rage, and she stomps her way over to his table to grab him by the front of his shirt.

“Dirk Gently, you are a _dead_ man!”

It takes him a minute to find his voice because it isn’t everyday that a random hippie chick mistakes him for someone else and tries to kick his ass, but he manages to squeak out a reply. “Who’s...who’s Dirk Gently?”

She pauses, blinks, and looks around the restaurant again in confusion. Besides an older couple sitting at the bar and the wait staff, he’s currently the only one in the diner. Her eyes shift back to his, eyebrows furrowing. “...You’re not Dirk Gently?”

“No!” He wrenches himself from her surprisingly strong grip to put as much distance between them as possible—which isn’t much since she’s blocking his way out of the diner and his booth only goes back so far.

“What, are you kidding me right now? Why didn’t you just say ‘I’m not Dirk Gently’?!”

He can only stare back at her, incredulous. “Because I don’t know who that is!”

Frowning, she huffs and plops down in the booth across from him, looking less like a crazy, murderous flower child and more like a little girl who’d just been told she couldn’t ever eat ice cream again. Judging by the way she’s slumped down in her seat, whatever’s bothering her has her pretty bummed.

Once he’s (reasonably) sure that she’s probably not going to kill him, he considers hearing her out to see if there’s something he can do to help. Plus there’s also the fact that the faster he can fix her problem the faster he can get her to go away. He has a rich girl’s account to sift through for evidence of possible child abuse, after all. “So...why are you looking for this Dirk Gently guy? You know, beyond wanting to kill him.”

The woman scoffs but grudgingly leans forward to rest her forearms on the table, swiping a few of his fries to stuff down her throat in the process. “My last drummer quit on me so I went to that Craigslist place to find a new one. This Dirk Gently guy on there said he’d help me out, but every time we’re supposed to meet up and practice, he bails on me!”

He nods gravely, doing his best to appear interested. “I’m guessing he was supposed to meet you here?”

“Yeah, and of course the dickhead didn’t show. Again. It was the last chance we had to practice, but now I’m gonna have to cancel my gig tonight. This all fucking blows.”

After hearing her reasons for accosting him he finds that he actually feels a little bad for her. He knows firsthand what it’s like to be constantly let down when you needed help the most, and it’s no wonder she was steaming mad when she came in. Maybe she’s not so crazy after all.

He taps his fingers on his keyboard, trying to figure out a possible solution to her problem (maybe she should try Reddit?) when she snaps her head up to stare wide eyed at him. “Can you make songs on that thing?” she asks, pointing to his laptop.

He glances down at it, confused. “I mean, I guess in theory? I do have a program on here that you can make music on. It simulates the sound of nearly every musical instrument ever invented, and—”

“Blah, blah, blah, whatever. Can you make that thing sound like _drums_?”

“Um, yeah?”

A sudden grin breaks out on her face. Before he can react she jumps up and drags him to his feet with a strength belying her small stature. “You’re my new drummer. C’mon, let’s go.”

She ignores his protests and pulls him from the restaurant to a yellow, beat up old car that looks like it used to be a taxi cab in another life. All he can do is hug his laptop to his chest as she books it down the street until they get to a run down storage unit in the middle of nowhere. She then unlocks and pulls up one of the garage-like doors to reveal her studio space. It looks like she also lives there if the futon, empty pizza boxes, and cases of water are anything to go by.

“Sit there, where I can see you,” she says, pointing at the futon covered in snack wrappers while she goes back to her car to get something. He clears a space on it to sit, and when she comes back, she has a guitar case slung over her shoulder. She then plops down on the empty seat next to him.

After spending half an hour turning his computer keyboard into an improvised beat machine under her impatient gaze, they spend the next two and a half going over some of her songs. Their practice session mostly consists of her terrorizing him for missing cues or having a complete lack of rhythm, and by the end, it feels like they haven’t gotten anywhere. He doesn’t even have the slightest idea what _type_ of music she plays let alone how any of her songs go.

Yeah, they’re for sure going to bomb.

He tries to say as much but the woman rushes him back into her car so that they’re headed to where he assumes her gig is. She turns to look at him, taking her eyes off the road in front of her for an alarmingly long time.

“It’s really good you decided to help me.”

“I didn’t decide _anything_. You said you’d smash my laptop if I didn’t help you.”

“Well, you decided it was better to help me than lose your laptop. It was nice.”

He can only gape back at her incredulously. He takes it back. She’s insane. She’s literally insane.

It doesn’t take much longer for them to pull into a surprisingly full lot next to a derelict looking dive bar. “We’re here,” she says, shutting off the dangerously rattling car. She suddenly reaches across his body—causing him to reflexively flinch—and opens his door for him. ”Get out.”

He scrambles out of the passenger side while she takes her time pulling her gear out of the trunk, and it’s at that moment that he strongly considers making a run for it. She can’t see him with the trunk open, and he could be a full block away before she even notices that he’s gone.

But then he remembers the dozens of times he’d been let down in life; by friends, by family—hell, by the fucking world. He can’t do that to her, even if she _had_ basically kidnapped him and forced him to join her band. It was only a few more hours, and it wasn’t like he had anything better to do that night.

They walk through the front doors of the rundown venue and it’s pretty much exactly what he expects. It’s dark, the air is thick with cigarette smoke, and most of the clientele already looks half drunk. He’s not exactly uncomfortable in the bar since he’d spent more than his fair share of time in places just like these ever since he’d moved out of his parent’s house at seventeen, but it’s not a place that he particularly likes to hang out in if he can help it.

She leads them over to the back corner of the building where a small stage has been built. An older woman is busy setting up the equipment and she looks up as they approach. “You two the Holistic Assassins?”

The hippie chick pulls her guitar off of her shoulder and sets it down on one of the stools resting against the wall. “That’s us.”

The older woman nods and stands, stretching out her back as she finishes setting up the last amp. “I’m Barb, the owner here. You go on in five.”

“What’s a...holistic assassin?” he asks as the owner disappears into the darkness of the bar.

After plugging her guitar into one of the amps, she turns to look at him with a pleased grin. "’Holistic’ is the fundamental interconnectedness of all things. I don't do your whole deal with structure, or finding inspiration, or writing drafts. I just...I play whatever I feel like playing all day, and if it works, then it becomes a new song.

Her eyes are nearly shining as she explains it to him, though for his part all he can do is stare dumbfounded back at her. “The connection between cause and effect is much more, you know, subtle than you would otherwise think. I mean...you wouldn't believe it. Things, they double up. They _parallel_. Everything is chaos, but it’s, like, synchronized? It's like, there's always something ready to mirror itself. Life endlessly turning inward.”

Yup. Crazy. “Don’t get me wrong, but it seemed like you were just playing a bunch of random notes when we were practicing.”

“I never played a bad song,” she says, somewhat defensively. She picks up her guitar and slings the strap over her shoulder. “Come on, time to play.”

He follows her onto the stage and plugs his laptop into the other amp—then tries to find the darkest shadow to hide in. They were going to bomb spectacularly, and the less people who saw him, the better.

“I’m Bart Curlish, and we’re the Holistic Assassins,” she grumbles into her mic, sounding like she’d rather be anywhere else. Which was odd since this was _her_ gig.

He then belatedly realizes that it’s the first time he’s heard her name. What the hell kind of a name is Bart for a girl? She looks back at him and nods, giving him his cue to start, so taking a deep breath, he begins to tap out the first rhythm she’d shown him a couple of hours before on his keyboard. She bobs her head with the beat for a few seconds, eyes closed, and then begins to play. He feels his jaw drop when the smoothest sound he’d ever heard comes from the amp next to him, and then he feels his jaw scrape the ground when she begins to sing.

She’s a completely different person. Her voice is husky and gravely, just like her speaking voice, and it’s surprisingly more pleasant than he expected it to be. And it’s still only secondary to how well she plays the guitar. She plays as though she was born with it in her hands—like it was a part of her own body.

Thankfully it’s easy enough for him to keep up with her. Her music is slower than he expects, and more mellow. If he had to compare it to anything it sounds sort of like a mix of folk and reggae, but even that’s inaccurate—it’s completely and totally hers.

He makes a couple of mistakes during her short forty-five minute set, but overall, he thinks he did a pretty good job for his first time. Sure, he’s absolutely exhausted and is sweating buckets from being under the hot lights of the stage, but he’d survived.

“We’ve been the Holistic Assassins. Thanks,” she all but spits at the audience. Unsurprisingly she’d reverted back into her old grumpy self once her fingers left her guitar.

The crowd isn’t that big—only around fifty or so people—but everyone’s on their feet and clapping, even the tough looking bikers who seemed more likely to eat them than cheer her on. A few people are even bold enough to approach her as she leaves the stage but she only gives them the barest amount of attention, nodding courteously as they compliment her and shrugging off any questions they have. Eventually they all give up on getting anything more than a couple of words out of her and the owner of the bar approaches them with an excited smile.

“I had my doubts about you when you first asked if you could play here, but you know what? You put on a hell of a show.” She hands Bart a stack of dirty bills. “I know it ain’t much, but come back soon and I’ll double it.”

Bart takes the money with a grunt, gives him half, and grabs him by his arm, pulling him towards the door leading to the parking lot. It’s not until they make it back outside to her car that she relaxes and gives him a small, meek smile. “You did good.”

A little surprised by the praise—she didn’t seem the type to dish it out all that often—he shakes his head. “It was a lot more fun than I thought it would be, and you’re really good. Amazing, actually.”

They lean silently against the hood of her car together for a few minutes, both still coming down from the high of performing live. He’s just about to make his exit when Bart suddenly stands and turns to look at him.

“So...you did the thing up there on stage, And now that you did it maybe you’re gonna leave, and...You can do whatever you want, you know, because I forced you to help me, and...and like, it must’ve been really bad for you, you know I didn’t think about your feelings and all that, and…

She takes a deep breath and lets it out again, looking distinctly uncomfortable with everything she was saying to him. It was obvious this wasn’t something she was used to. “I don’t want you to go. I think.” Her eyes are misty as she speaks, surprising him since they’ve only known each other for at most six hours and yet she already seems to care so much for him. It pains him to admit it, but he can’t remember the last time anyone had been so sad to see him go.

He considers her request, and after a little thought, realizes that he was truly, genuinely _happy_ up there making music on stage with her. He had been doing nothing everyday of his life and thinking it was just that—nothing. It was nothing. Even if he’s just providing a backing beat for her amazing songs, he’s found some semblance of a purpose and hell, maybe a little happiness too.

“Hey,” he says, nudging her to get her attention. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A wide grin breaks out on her face, and laughing with unconcealed relief, she throws her arms around his neck. She’s still sweaty from their show but so is he, so rather than try to squirm away from her touch like he usually would with any other person, he awkwardly returns it. She smells like musk, dirt, and sweat, and though the smell isn’t exactly pleasant, it isn’t altogether _unpleasant_ either.

Still smiling, Bart pops the trunk to put her guitar inside. “Our next gig’s tomorrow night. Come on, we gotta practice.”

He slides into the passenger seat with his laptop and leans his head out of the window to talk to her. “You ever think about selling some merch? Maybe putting out a CD or at least uploading your music to BandCamp for people to download? I’m pretty good with a camera, so I could help you get your face out there a little more.” He’s vaguely aware that he’s being a little overeager, but he’s inspired by her. He _believes_ in her. She has something special, and with his help, maybe she could become one of the biggest indie artists of all time. “I’ll bet I can sync my computer up to the stage lights. You know, add a little pizzazz to the show.”

She slams the trunk closed and laughs as she slides into the driver’s seat. “Pizzazz? Ken, you’re a riot.”

He rolls his eyes and shrugs. Well, whatever. He’d get her to see the appeal of his ideas eventually. He’s about to suggest they get a bite to eat before they spend the next who knows how long practicing when something she’d said stops him cold.

“...Wait, how do you know my name?”

**Author's Note:**

> The first time I saw Bart I thought ‘huh, she vaguely reminds of Tash Sultana.’ So if you want to look up some of her vids to get an idea of Bart’s appearance and musical style, That’s sort of who I’m channeling here.


End file.
